Reverie
by frogandrabbitsox
Summary: Pianoverse (self created): Francis believes that everyone he ever loved is dead, or had never loved him. He's reached his last straw. Out of desperation, he discovers that his past can be discovered through the essence of music...One-shot, platonic pairings with a mention of Jeanne. The word "love" is used loosely. T for Arthur and his speech.


AN/ This is an unexpected sequel to my very, very old fanfic, TMIFS. No worries, they have nothing in common beside the characters, and that they're in my self-created Pianoverse. Also, this one's probably better.

Dedicated to that one friend who loves Debussy as much as I do, maybe even more. Michelle, you are being warned about explicit language.

Reviews are always a pleasure, especially constructive criticism!

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Reverie

The stars were so faint in the sky. The bled into the dark, but brighter background sky like diluted paint, not completely mixed with water yet. The skies in cities were always like that. They blocked out the natural view of reality, making night the "time of now", filled with the same energy and sense of purpose as the days bring. And never had Francis longed so much for the inky sky of the past, filled with millions of clear clusters, drops of white and varying hues, one he could spot in his home, France.

He sighed. The sky was as indigo as ever. He'd have to visit the country side again sometime soon. But he was afraid. Paris would change again, like it always did, when he wandered away. Soon the familiar buildings would vanish. That coffee spot he liked to visit, for their eccentric but elegant taste, would be out of business. The kind old lady that always gave Francis a pastry whenever he visited would soon be gone, succeeded by her only grandchild. He was weary. Time passed by too fast for him. But he couldn't help it. He could not stop modernization, and he could not stop evolution.

But once, couldn't he just freeze time? Was it a crime to want something he missed long ago? Couldn't he see his little town, his Paris, stop, and just be? To let it flourish as its own unique culture, rather than assimilate with others, was something he wanted, but could not have. Ah, this stubborn city was like a child! Just a few centuries ago, it was a simple town, but now...

Well now, it had grown up, and Francis could not stop it. It was like all the others. Alfred, Matthew, Jeanne...

Jeanne. Francis gasped and looked to the sky, clutching a single white rose. Where was the saint that Jeanne had served so faithfully? What was of her fate? Where was she now? Sometimes, he swore he could see her, in the sky, behind the light pollution, holding a cross, smiling wistfully at him, forever with the stars.

"Jeanne...Jeanne...where are you now? I've been asking for decades now. You've never answered me...not even a sign." He whispered harshly. Francis' eyes were downcast. He gasped and continued.

"The other day, I met a girl...she looked just like you. I tried so hard to reach you...but you never gave me a sign. It hurt so much, looking at another you, a different you, an innocent you, a happy little girl...that isn't you. Jeanne...I just hope that you answer me."

He looked, his violet-blue eyes searching desperately in the sky. The stars faded quietly into the dark background of space, an inky black fabric that took her from him. Francis gasped and choked a bit, as he tried to control himself.

This entire week he mangled with the other nations. Everyone was so cheerful. Alfred – no – America laughed his way through conversations. England was lecturing him, groaning and complaining, but happy. Matthieu – no – Canada, was blended in the background again, but every one could have seen the light in his eyes when someone recognized him. They were all happy in their own way, happy to be independent, glad to be in the now. Except for Arthur. But, getting along was never their forte, and the man would berate him whenever he got the chance. Being with the nations brought a sense of closeness, yet also a feeling of loneliness. No one would truly love Francis. They were nations, after all. They couldn't afford to love on another, especially when their lives could be ripped apart by the same nation they fell in love with. Mortals drifted past too easily. They flew by, and once they were gone, they could never get their youth back, much less their lives.

Francis was too tired. He was tired of being in the now, where everything was so different. Everyone had gone from him. All the humans he talked to only drifted away, each of them leaving a painful scar in his heart. Like Jeanne. All Francis wanted to do was to run away, back in time, and meet everyone in the past again. He just wanted to flee. Hell, he would give up his life just to meet everyone in the past just one more time. Just once.

All of of sudden, something seized Francis. He jerked upward, his tears momentarily dissipated. The rose in his hand flew into the river in front of him. He gritted his teeth, lowered his head, and turned away from the sky. His echoing footsteps brought him back into the city.

Paris was lit so brightly by lights. The glow from plentiful lampposts were reflected off of glass windows, buildings, people, and vehicles. There were so many people, and they walked so quickly. The cars honked, and the people talked. The pavement was cracked but the cars ran over it anyway. Parking meters flashed red. Lights changed at rapid speed, and so did the diversity of the people. He could see a couple sitting at a restaurant, chatting happily, a little bird of a feeling that warmed Francis' heart just a little. An old lady was sitting at a bench in the park, feeding the birds. A group of girls, tourists, no doubt, wandered and giggled, looking fascinated at everything there was to see at night. The buildings reflected off words in French, people spoke in fast-paced French, and the Eiffel Tower loomed behind Francis, the famous symbol of France. It was almost like a workday morning. Francis looked up somberly. These were the people that sustained his life force, the every people that he represented.

They were him. Anger, sadness, and tiredness flooded his body. He longed to get back home quicker. He needed a key to the past, and Francis couldn't stay in a crowd of tourists for any longer.

The air was freezing, and every exhale he took while desperately pacing to get back to his haven formed a cloud of water vapor. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were hurting, threatening to spill over. Francis couldn't break now. He was a country, for heaven's sake, and he just needed to breathe easy before spilling over. He needed something to pacify him, and the only way to keep himself cool is to somehow be in the past.

But how? Francis was becoming more and more desperate every second. Every second he stayed outside, in the chill, surrounded by strangers made him less and less sane. Time wouldn't stop for him. He had to hurry.

On the way, he passed by a familiar face. He didn't stop. He didn't want to stop. He needed to get home.

Francis picked up speed and he ran across the street. The people beside him yelled and gave him glares of all sorts, but Francis didn't care. He needed to see his past. He needed to remember.

"Francis? Oi, Francis, where are you going?" A familiar voice cut through the air like a knife. But Francis was made of diamond. He wasn't going to shatter yet. His house was just around the corner...

"Francis? Oh god, what are you doing now?" The voice drifted farther and farther away. His voice was barely a faint chirp when Francis made it to his apartment. He smashed the door open, and slammed it shut. The faint whisper of a voice was immediately cut off.

Francis tore the coat of his body and paced around nervously. He was going to break any second. There should be something-

Tucked away at a corner stood a piano. It was modest, nothing fancy like Roderich's Steinway, but nothing small like a upright. It was a beautiful chocolate brown, the polished wood slightly dusty from neglect. There were towers of papers at its base, and a large bookcase behind it, no doubt filled with so many other pieces that awaited him. But he had no time.

_Five..._

_Four..._

Francis ran toward the bookcase. The books, neatly stacked, were also compressed together so tightly that he couldn't yank a single book out without hurting his hands. He had no super strength, and he had no time. Francis desperately dashed toward the pile.

_Three..._

There were piles and piles of sheet musics, none with a name, just scribbles he vaguely recognized as his own. His own compositions would not help him.

_Two..._

At the bottom of the pile sat an old, crinkled copy of something he vaguely recognized. It was not his, perhaps from a friend. A gift. Francis yanked the copy and propped it against the stand. He opened the piano.

_One..._

The cushion was soft when he sat. The piano keys looked pearly white and ebony black, almost brand new. The music was spread out evenly, and he was about to break. His breath came out staggered.

He touched the key.

_D Flat_

A beautiful note echoed throughout the small apartment, muted, but vivid in his mind. He slowly played an arpeggio, then repeated it, quietly, muted. Francis let go of his breath and blinked slowly. He recognized this somewhere.

As the left hand gracefully ascended and descended with the background chords, his right came in with the twinkly melody. At once, the song filled with color. He could see it, the countryside. He could see Paris, the past Paris. He could feel it come back to him.

The chords, they contrasted...and came back. The melody never once betrayed him. The notes floated delicately in the air and swirled into the Parisian sky. The cadences were contrasted again, and they melody changed again. The song kept on going, with out an ending, just a ribbon of well-coordinated, well-adjusted notes that presented themselves as a true art, true beauty. The song, it was beyond him.

He just followed the piece. It came again and again. He could see 1890's France in his own eyes. The hills, the people, the air, the sky, the stars...

The madame and monsieur that greeted him...the musicians that always wanted to meet him...that one lady from a foreign place whom was his pupil...everything played again in his mind, guided by the notes and music of the 1890. He could see the rose gardens, the tea, the perfectly crafted goods. He could hear the accent and feel it in his mouth. He could sniff out the delicate aroma of freshly-baked pastries. The life came back to him.

But slowly, the song changed. The melody fell minor and he sighed. He came back to the days of momentary peace. He remembered the little girl who laughed at his hair, and tried to braid it. He could hear his dog bark far away, encouraging him to come after him, even after his impromptu death. He could remember that time when he was in love with Rosalia...

The seasons passed, and years, slipped by, and one by one, the decades arose from his memory. The melody changed minor, major, traded hands, and finally, the journey ended. The last chord was played, and Francis' hands ceased. The music stopped.

Francis didn't even know he was crying until he reached the end. Hurriedly, he wiped his tears away. To be moved by music at such a time...it definitely wasn't the first time, but for such reasons, it was strange.

Maybe he underestimated music after all.

"Nice taste in music, frog." A soft voice interrupted Francis' silence. Francis, momentarily startled snapped his head back. "What in the name of-"

"It's just me, idiot." Arthur huffed back. "Don't act so surprised. I do know your address, after all."

Francis turned away. "I'm not. I should have guessed that was you." He sounded a tad bitter.

An awkward silence filled the air. Arthur was speechless. Francis never cried, but here he was, sounding bitter and hopeless. It was as if the frog's demeanor did a three-sixty flip.

Oh, he thought, that's why...

"Reverie, by Debussy." Arthur stated, adding a touch of a French accent to the title. "Just as I thought. Your taste for music fairly predictable. Not that that's a bad thing, I mean."

Francis laughed dryly, "I just selected something random from my pile. Ironically, you thought it was predictable."

Arthur was silent for a moment. "It is a pretty piece. Debussy was an amazing pianist, and he had a blending style that is difficult to replicate..."

Francis snapped, "Why are you here? What do you want?"

Arthur sighed. "Francis, you were running desperately. I've never seen you run so quickly and ignore me at the same time. You made quite a scene too, and it wasn't a pretty one. I can be concerned, you know."

Coldly, Francis answered, "Well, my problems don't concern you. Now, Arthur, if you would please leave me-"

"Look, Francis, I don't know what you're thinking, but this isn't like you. If any of my friends were upset, I would be concerned. There is nothing that makes you different from them. Therefore, I will be concerned, whether you bloody like it or not!" Arthur stated.

"What do you mean? You think me as a friend? Please." Francis didn't turn around.

"Are you kidding me? Francis, we raised two children together, and you are telling me that you don't think I had any sort of friendly relations with you? Everyday, we spoke, fought, and laughed with Matthew and Alfred. We were practically a family, and yet you dare think that I don't like you? Frog, you are way stupider than I thought." Arthur's voice was dangerously low. "Here I thought you as an insensitive prat, yet the entire time, you've taken every word I've thrown at you seriously! Look, every time we talk to each other, I've treated you as a friend. All of us, Matthew, Alfred, and I, we have always worried about you. We're almost your damn family. A family cares for its members, idiot. Why the hell would you think we don't?

"We both know that Alfred and Matthew became independent on their own accord. Of course, it broke our hearts. But, I never for a second doubted that they still thought of me as a father figure, parent or not. To this day, Alfred still asks for advice on the weirdest things, and he still thinks of me as parental figure, though inferior, damn his ego. Matthew still comes over and treats us like family, though not much of a parental figure as a brother, damn your horny ass. Don't. You. Ever. Doubt. Our. Concern. You. Bloody. Frog. Got it? We care! And don't you dare pity yourself any longer, or else I'll come after you with my magic wand."

Francis was quiet during the whole row. Then, he started shaking.

Arthur was alarmed."F-frog...Damn, I'd never thought you'd be this sensitive...oh god. Are you crying?"

To his amazement, Francis burst out into a bout of hysterical laughter.

"Ohonhonhonohon...honhon...That was superb, Angleterre! Arthur...you can be so expressive...oh Mon Dieu, I'm going to faint...This is amazing...honhonhonhon..."

"B-b-bastard! You've been playing me this entire time, haven't you?" Arthur turned a dark shade of red. "Hey, idiot, answer me!"

The chuckling died out slowly as Francis composed himself and faced Arthur. "Oh, Arthur. That was amazing. I'd never thought I would say something to you, but thank you so much. I'd truly thought that everyone who loved me had left me, like Jeanne..."

"Oh." Arthur's anger dissipated. "I'm sorry...about Jeanne..."

The awkward silence took its place.

"Don't worry about it, Arthur. It's not completely your fault." Francis turned away. "Well, it is getting late. You have to check up on Alfred and Matthieu, non?"

"It's Matthew, Francis. We agreed on that." Arthur sighed.

"Well, he was mine, so that rule won't apply to me, right?" Francis smiled a sly, Francis-like smile. Arthur let a small smile slip onto his usual scowling face.

"Bastard." He said, and left.

Francis sighed. The night was no longer young. He hurriedly sauntered back to the piano to clean up.

His eyes landed onto the chair of the piano. His eyes, clear and bright, widened.

On the bench lay a single white rose. A wind blew, and a familiar aroma reached his nose.

_Jeanne._

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_AN/ Thanks for reading, and opinions on Pianoverse would be amazing! (if there is another pianoverse out there please notify me...i honestly don't want to be taking someone else's idea)_


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